Left on Base
by bellaplease
Summary: Maybe Kristy isn't so sure of herself after all. One-shot.


**Author's Note:** I wrote this for a friend who said Kristy is the only BSC member she couldn't see losing her virginity in high school, because she was too self-assured and conservative. I wanted to see if I could write a more vulnerable and insecure teenage Kristy.

**Rated T** because there is no actual sex, just the very beginning of the wheels being put into motion.

The back of my neck tingles.

I've tried scratching it, but the tingle's not an itch. It's not a chill, either, not on this gorgeous May afternoon, one of those days when spring is first starting to roll languidly into summer. Memorial Day is in two weeks, the sun is beaming down on the baseball diamond behind Stoneybrook High School, and my boyfriend is pitching a –

_What am I doing?_ Terry is the starting pitcher for today's game and that's all. He's pitched six and a third innings of shutout ball, Stoneybrook Day's center fielder is watching strike three sail past his belt buckle, and I am going to run to the top of the bleachers and throw myself off of them if that little tingle on my neck doesn't go away.

Twenty up, twenty down.

I've had about enough of this. I shake my head from side to side rapidly in an attempt to dislodge the mysterious sensation. Jason Fox, the statistician for SHS athletics, is seated next to me and looks up from his calculator, obviously misunderstanding why I'm fidgeting. He smiles reassuringly. "Calm down, Kristy, he looks great out there. You know, his ERA went down to less than one back in the fifth inning."

"Nice," is all I can reply. I squeeze my shoulder blades together. The tingle doesn't respond. I try my best to ignore it and look over at Jason's notebook and calculator, but after fouling off a few pitches, the Stoneybrook Day batter has grounded out to third base and Jason is tapping at the keys again.

He wiggles his eyebrows at me and stands up. "Point nine one. Let's hope he gets a little run support."

I smile weakly. "I might walk around for a bit. You want me to hang on to your stuff?" I know Jason likes to run into the dugout and chat with the team during the seventh-inning stretch. I usually stay put as long as Terry is pitching during his starts. I never liked being disturbed between innings when I played softball, but Terry is more easygoing than I am. He's pretty good about humoring Jason.

He's pretty good about a lot of things. The SHS baseball team's offense has been absolutely pathetic so far this season, so even though Terry is throwing better than most of the high school pitchers in Connecticut, you'd never know it from his record (one win and one loss). But Terry just takes it in stride. My brother Sam is a senior at SHS and always asks Terry how he can stand doing so much for a team that offers him next to nothing in return. Terry only smiles and says, "I do what I can, and so do they."

"If you're getting up, I can take them." Jason moves to scoop up his notebook and calculator. I lift my hand in a gesture for him to stop.

"I might, I might not. You know what, just leave them here, forget it."

"If you're sure." He trots off toward the dugout, and I glance into it. Terry is seated on the bench, tossing a water bottle back and forth between his hands. He is completely isolated from his teammates, who are clustered as far away from him as possible. I spot Logan Bruno in the huddle of boys, and he meets my eye and offers me a sheepish smile before quickly looking away. It takes me a second to realize why Logan isn't his usual friendly self, and by the time I do, the tingle is back on my neck.

That does it. I shove Jason's notebook, pencil, and calculator into my backpack and sling it over my shoulder before standing up and stretching. I rip the elastic out of my hair and immediately put it back into a ponytail, tugging my hair with more force than usual. I charge up the bleachers, trying to work off the nervous energy that seems to have colonized my neck, and then I see him.

Bart Taylor is staring straight at me. He's sitting in the sixth row of the bleachers with a notebook of his own and a cast on his left arm, and when I turn to look at him his face immediately breaks into the same lopsided smile that made my stomach do flip-flops when I was thirteen.

And my stomach immediately recognizes it and responds accordingly. _Stop it, stomach_, I mentally command, but it doesn't listen. Why should I expect it to? My neck didn't listen to me either. Can I control _any _of my body parts?

Apparently not, because before I realize it I'm halfway to Bart's seat. Thanks, legs. "Hey, Kristy! I thought that was you. I couldn't really tell from up here, I've been trying to figure out whether it was you or not. Wow, it's been so long. You look great." He stands up to give me a hug, and I instinctively stiffen as his arm goes around me.

"Sorry, your…arm. Is that okay?" I ask awkwardly. Please don't guess the cast has nothing to do with my reaction.

He laughs and rubs the cast. "No, I think you might have shattered it. I may never paint again. Um, no, I went skiing up at Sugarloaf over spring break and I guess I overestimated my skills. Or they just aren't labeling the trails correctly." Still cocky. "Came back with a broken arm. Coach was not pleased, but that wasn't really going anywhere anyway…" He trails off and runs a hand through his hair. "So you're here to watch…your brother? Sam's still here, right? I didn't think I saw him on the roster, but -"

"No. No, he was on the basketball team. He's graduating next month, so, you know, can't pay him to stay around Stoneybrook High, he's probably off with his friends somewhere. He's going to Penn State this fall," I add uncomfortably. The longer I wait to tell him about Terry, the weirder it'll be.

"So you're just here watching the game by yourself?"

"Yeah. No. I mean, I'm watching it by myself, but my boyfriend is on the team."

Bart's eyes widen for an instant, but then the smile reappears just as quickly. "So you're still into ballplayers, huh?" I feel a blush creep up my neck and mentally add my circulatory system to the list of disloyal body parts. "What position does he play?"

I can't help but smile as I tell him. "He pitches. Terry Dutton?"

"No way! Our guys wouldn't shut up about him on the bus here. You know, the first draft of the schedule had us playing Lawrenceville today."

"You rode the bus?"

"I write for the SDS newspaper now, so I travel with the team. The editor-in-chief is this girl, Allie, and I'm pretty sure she has it bad for me." Still _so _cocky. "She offered me a column in the sports section pretty much the second I was off the roster. That's how I saw the first draft of the schedule. But instead we're here and everyone's moaning about having to go up against Dutton." Bart grins at me slyly and my stomach does another little flip. _Sit, stomach. Stay._ "Think you can get down there and talk him into going just a little easier on us?"

I look at him from under my eyelashes, and as much as I'd like to group my eyes with my neck, stomach, legs, and cardiovascular system, that one was all on me. "Bart, you know I'd do anything for you, but…" What? What was my mouth doing? Oh no oh no oh no. "…that offense looks half dead. You'd be better off praying for a miracle." There we go.

"You're going to talk to me about half dead offenses? Isn't this the first time you guys have a runner in scoring position today?" _What?_ I look down at the field, and sure enough, Robert Brewster is taking a huge lead off third. When did the game start again?

"Oh, my gosh! I have to go, oh no, Jason is going to kill me!" I try to start making my way past the people sitting in Bart's row. I turn back to yell, "It was great seeing you again!" and when I face forward again I nearly run into Chris Brooks and Sandra Hart, who gives me a dirty look until Chris elbows her. He'll be at SHS this fall but has been keeping track of our baseball team's standings since he was in the sixth grade. He seems to consider me the First Lady of SHS baseball.

Somehow I make it back to my seat without falling flat on my face. I tear open my backpack and frantically search for Jason's notebook and calculator. When I hand them to him, I see he has a crumpled-then-unfolded paper napkin half-covered in notes sitting on his lap along with a ballpoint pen. "I am _so _sorry," I pant. "I was – what did I miss?"

"Leadoff triple off the first pitch he saw." Oh. I guess I hadn't missed that much. What am I thinking? Terry is pitching the game of his life. How can I miss a _second _of this game, and to talk to my smug ex-boyfriend, at that? Jason looks over at me. "Oh, wow, Kristy, you look awful. Is everything okay? Don't worry about it, I have this napkin, see…" I look awful? Did Bart think I looked awful? He said I looked great. But what if he was just - _shut up, brain! _Snap out of it, Thomas.

"If we don't get this runner in I'm going to set the field on fire," I tell Jason as Bill Torrance strikes out. He chuckles, shaking his head, and writes down a number. I dig in my backpack for the pack of Skittles I remember putting in there yesterday morning. Okay, I'm definitely losing my mind, because I _know _I put them in here, I did it right after Sam went out to his car so he wouldn't see them and ask for any because he thinks "a couple" means "three-quarters of the bag" and –

The stands are erupting in cheers and Robert is sauntering back to the dugout, pumping his fist while high-fiving teammates with his other hand. I throw my backpack down and grab Jason's shoulder. "What? I didn't see."

"He stole home! We're up one-nothing!"

So Terry can get the win. I spent six and a half innings desperately hoping SHS would give Terry a lead, but now it feels hollow, like there should be more. Suddenly I realize my neck has turned by itself and I'm looking back at where Bart is seated. He smiles at me – _flip-flop_ – and gives me a thumbs-up. I force myself to turn to Jason and realize there is a smile on my own face. Again, Jason misreads my expression. "Guess that was what you needed." He rubs my shoulder. "Terry's got to come back out for the eighth now."

I shrug. "The eighth isn't what I'm concerned about. He's gone into the eighth twice so far this year, but Coach never lets him stay into the ninth, and it's not even his fault."

Jason shakes his head sympathetically and marks something in his notebook as the inning ends with a pop out to short. "They never give him a big enough lead."

Suddenly, my neck feels warm. I close my eyes for an instant and then stand up. "Jason, can you watch my things? I have to get up for a second."

"No problem. And I'll be here when you get back," he adds pointedly, but with a smile on his face.

I squeeze out a laugh. "Sorry, sorry, I'll bring you back some napkins," I offer before jogging back into the school building. My face feels warm and itchy, and I head to the student council office to use its bathroom, the only consistently clean one in the school. The office is empty except for the sophomore class vice-president, Melissa Banks, who is sitting at the meeting table putting handfuls of Hershey's Kisses into sandwich bags.

She holds an open bag out to me. "Interested in buying some goodbye kisses for your favorite senior?"

I touch my face, which by now feels like it's on fire. "Not now, but I will. I just need to use the bathroom, I want to get back out there before the inning starts."

Melissa smiles knowingly. "You've got to look good for your boy." Puke. "I swear, Terry is single-handedly saving our baseball team from being the laughingstock of Connecticut." She raises an eyebrow. "You know he deserves a reward. Think he'll cross home plate anytime soon?" Melissa is so _annoying_. I wonder if she knows she never would have been elected class vice-president if someone besides Alan Gray had run against her.

"High school pitchers don't run the bases," I say crisply, as I push through the bathroom door without looking at Melissa.

After splashing cold water on my face, I feel well enough to go back outside. I even manage a (nearly) friendly "See you later" to Melissa when I walk past her. But by the time I get back to the baseball diamond, Stoneybrook Day has already taken the field. I've missed seeing Terry pitch the eighth. "Was I slow, or was the top of the eighth just that fast?"

Jason won't look at me. "Fast. Six pitches. Ground out, ground out, strike out looking."

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. "He can't not pitch the ninth. I mean –" I stop abruptly.

Jason knows what I mean, but he still can't tear his eyes away from the dugout. "Yeah."

I, on the other hand, can't bring myself to look at him. "How does he look?"

"Great. But he always looks great. I mean he looks calm. He seems fine. Normal."

"He _has _to go back out for the ninth. Is anyone warming up?"

I hear a smile in Jason's voice. "Nope." So Terry will get a chance to finish this game. I feel strangely relaxed as I watch Stoneybrook Day's pitcher retire three batters after giving up two walks. Jason groans and mutters, "Do they hate him or something?"

I want to tell him that my brother always asks the same question, but my mouth won't move. My heart is pounding, my brain is going a mile a minute, and my body feels like lead. I blink and in an instant Terry is back on the mound and battling with the twenty-fifth SDS batter. Eight pitches later, the ball is sailing into left field and dropping softly into Logan Bruno's glove. Breathe out. I still can't look directly at Terry, but I watch his third pitch to batter number twenty-six tap lamely against the bat, roll right back to the pitcher's mound, and somehow end up at first base before the runner does. And my neck is warm. _Not now, not now, please not now_.

My neck is warm. Focus, Kristy. Just one more. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten-eleven-twelve-thirteen-fourteen-fifteen-sixteen-seventeen-eighteen-nineteen-twenty-twenty-one-twenty-two-twenty-three-twenty-four-twenty-five-twenty-six-my neck swivels, all on its own, and I turn to look in Bart's direction. His right elbow is on his leg, his hand is propping up his chin, and he is intently studying the people standing up? I can't see Bart anymore because people are standing up. Everyone in the bleachers is standing up and screaming because _Terry pitched a perfect game and I missed it_.

I look back at the field just in time to see Bill Torrance throw his catcher's mask on the ground and race toward Terry. The infielders have already thrown themselves onto him, the outfielders are on their way, and Coach Kosinski is advancing toward the knot of players with his arms open. Everyone is laughing, yelling, slapping Terry on the back, or some combination of the three, and Jason is practically in tears next to me. "Thank you, Terry! Thank you!" he is shouting. Is he serious? I think disloyally. For the first time, I may have an inkling of what my friends meant when they told me not to be so competitive and what Terry meant when he told Sam his teammates' performance was no big deal, and I must say I hate myself for understanding. This is a huge deal. Gigundo. Twenty-seven up, twenty-seven down.

I stand up and dodge Jason's bizarre victory dance, managing to avoid the limbs that seem to be shooting out in all directions. I've never been the shrieking type, but somehow it seems appropriate here, so I let out a tiny yelp when the circle of players around Terry has finally loosened enough for me to run over and give him a hug. His smile breaks into a laugh when I have to get on my tiptoes to throw my arms around his neck, and when he leans down to kiss me, I move my head backwards just long enough to shout, "Congratulations!" Is that the right reaction? Should I have whistled? No, why would I whistle in his face? That would be weird. Stop being weird, Kristy. Is Bart watching – _Stop it, brain!_

My idiotic interior monologue is interrupted by Coach Kosinski clearing his throat and Robert Brewster giggling hysterically. "Tell him, Coach, you can tell him now."

"Terry, I'd like you to come inside to my office. I have someone who wants to meet you." A look of confusion passes over Terry's face, and Robert rolls his eyes impatiently.

"A _scout _is here. From Georgia _Tech_."

Terry's eyes grow huge. "No way," he breathes. His arm falls from around my waist and his face turns pale.

"That's good, Terry," I tease. "You don't have to look like your cat just died." Terry has never seemed to understand quite how talented he is, and I blame the ineptitude of the rest of his team for that. It's easy for anyone to look good next to them. When he doesn't respond, I shove him gently in the direction of the school, but he still doesn't move. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the bleachers emptying and Jason Fox doing something that might be hulaing with an imaginary hoop. Friends of Terry's are making their way onto the field and stopping a few yards away from where we are, as if Terry is the Pope or something. Chris Brooks is standing next to the on-deck circle, a dreamy smile on his face. Suddenly I really want to get out of there. I get back on my tiptoes and try to kiss Terry on the cheek. I am mostly unsuccessful, since he remains boardlike in his stiffness, not leaning over as he usually does. So instead I stroke his jaw and tell him, "I'm going to let you go. You'll be great. You _are _great. I have to watch my brother and sister, so I'll call you tonight, okay?" Finally, I turn to Coach. "I really do have to go. You'll make sure he doesn't grow roots here, right?"

Coach smiles. "Of course." I smile back and start toward the pay phones at the front of the school. The late buses have already left and I'm going to have to call home for a ride. Nannie's volunteer shift at the hospital doesn't start for an hour, so I ask to speak to her when Watson answers the phone.

"Sure, I'll get her. How'd the game go, Kristy?"

A small knot forms in my stomach. "Great," I say in a sort of choked whisper. "So great," I amend in a more human voice. "Terry pitched a perfect game."

"No kidding? That's phenomenal." He doesn't sound as surprised as I expect, but then he's been predicting greatness for Terry since the first pitch he saw him throw. Amusement creeps into his voice. "But did he get a win?"

I laugh. "Barely. One-nothing."

"Of course."

I shrug my backpack from one shoulder to the other. "Could you ask Nannie to come and pick me up? She has the hospital this evening, you know, so I'm going to watch Emily and David Michael if you still have some work to do."

He still sounds amused, which I'm not sure I appreciate. "Yes, Kristy, I know. I'll tell Nannie, she'll be on her way as soon as I hang up. See you soon."

"Bye, Watson." I walk over to a bench to wait for Nannie, who probably won't be here for at least twenty minutes. I might as well try to get some schoolwork done, and I take out my copy of _To the Lighthouse_ to start on the sixty pages I need to have read for next Wednesday. I've finished less than one page by the time Nannie's car stops at the curb in front of me. This book has got to be the least engaging publication ever to go to press, and my preoccupation with missing Terry's twenty-seventh out is no help.

Also, Bart Taylor. _Stop thinking about him, brain._

He wasn't even _thinking _about me and I missed the last out of the game to look at him. Or maybe he was thinking about me – not that it matters. _Lighthouse_. Perfect game. "It won't be fine tomorrow." Georgia Tech.

If Terry goes to Georgia Tech after next year, what would that mean for me?


End file.
